The Game
by taylortighten
Summary: When John spends the night at Sarah's, something horrible happens. Are John and Sherlock prepared to deal with the impending Game?
1. Chapter 1

A/N - Here's chapter one of a new chapter fic I've been working on. More chapters will be posted depending on feedback! Un-beta'd and un-Brit-picked.

Warning(s) - Minor character death(s), semi-detailed description of crime scene(s), eventual Johnlock.

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><p>"I'm off to visit Sarah." John called, tugging and smoothing out his beige jumper while looking at his flatmate.<p>

"You'll be back before the night ends." Sherlock stated simply, not tearing his eyes from the smiley face on the wall. Before John could even open his mouth to make any sort of protest, the sociopath was waving him off as if his silent words were breaking his concentration. Though, knowing Sherlock, that was probably true.

Muttering under his breath and pulling on his jacket, he paused at the bottom landing to address Mrs. Hudson that he was leaving.

"Do try and make sure he doesn't get himself into too much trouble, Mrs. Hudson, I'll be back late."

"Not his babysitter!" She replied, wagging a finger at him and ushering him out of the doorway. The all too common reply made him laugh, sending her a grin before rushing out of the building.

It was nippy out, but not as chilly as he thought it would be. Even though the clouds looking foreboding and threatening heavy rain, it was relatively easy to hail a cab. Less than fifteen minutes later, he was getting out in front of a tall building, and less than three minutes later he was knocking on the door of his girlfriends flat.

Being with her made him forget all of the troubles that Sherlock piled onto his shoulders. There were never talks about dead bodies or poisons or offhand comments about Donovan and Anderson were sleeping together still. It was warm in her flat- the heat hadn't been turned off because the owner didn't forget to pay the bill. There weren't experiments littering every inch of the place, and there wasn't a grotesque body part anywhere in sight.

Shoes kicked off at the door, jacket slung over one of the pristine pastel couches, a happy couple making small talk at the table while sipping tea. Laughter and smiles and a comfortable silence that had very little chance of being interrupted by a bombing.

This is what life was supposed to be on a regular basis, John knew it. He loved the thrill of the chase, but it was so utterly pleasant to get a break sometimes. Sherlock would call it dull, pedestrian, domestic. John would call it the life of a normal human being.

"-And then, then she said that the dog had done it!" Sarah giggled, shaking her head. "Like a dog would go out and buy a pregnancy test? It was the worst excuse possible!"

"What was she thinking?" Laughter bubbled up again, causing wide smiles and crinkled eyes.

John beamed, shaking his head and listening to the gossip. He could listen to her talk for ages. Sagging slightly in his chair and leaning back to stretch his legs out in front of him, he spotted something curious on the countertop behind his girlfriend. She kept rattling on about how everyone had already known that the girl was cheating and how her husband was the last to find out, when he sat up and frowned.

"There are two wine glasses there," It was a plain and simple state of fact. Two wine glasses with tiny splotches of red still left at the bottom. Sarah was always clean, always on top of any sort of mess left in her own flat. "When did you have wine?" He was really more curious about whom she had wine with, but he left that comment out for just a moment.

"What? Oh, those!" She followed his gaze, opening and closing her mouth just once before shaking her head and turning back to her boyfriend. "I had a visitor earlier, I must have left those out by mistake."

"Wine? It's just past dinner, a little early for wine." What was meant as an offhand comment was unfortunately taken the wrong way by the young lady, who huffed quietly.

"He was just a friend, John! He didn't feel like tea, and we agreed on wine, that's all that happened." Normally he'd shrug it off, continue on asking about the pregnant girl and her affair, but this situation was coming off slightly less than normal. Sarah was never this defensive, and she didn't seem to want to make eye contact with him anymore.

"I only mentioned that it was a bit early for wine, Sarah, why are you getting defensive?" The second he finished speaking, John knew that he had said the wrong thing. Stupid, stupid, he had been spending way too much time around Sherlock.

"Defensive! You're the one always out and about with that Sherlock, and I never question a moment of it, even when you blow off our dates for him! I have wine with one guy and now I'm in the wrong? You've got to be bloody joking with me!" She huffed again, louder this time, crossing her arms over her chest and pursing her lips.

"Sherlock and I work together, and we aren't off having a bit of wine in the middle of the day! We're around dead bodies and madmen and Yarders!"

Both of their voices were rising at this point, frustrated with each other over absolutely nothing. He felt perfectly normally having a row with a chip 'n bit machine, but having one with his girlfriend? John couldn't be any more furious at her suggestions and sneers. If there was nothing wrong with solving cases with his flatmate, then why couldn't she have wine with a man that she refused to name?

It was all fair, in her mind.

Having a drink with a man that wasn't her boyfriend wasn't close to comparing to working a case in the most insane hours of the night.

After tossing his teacup a little too hard into the sink, (it had only split down one side, but still got the point across that their row had gotten too heated) John stood dead still in the middle of the kitchen with his girlfriend still in her seat, sniffling and rubbing her eyes.

Christ, he was making her cry, all because he couldn't control his stupid mouth.

"Sarah..." Well, he bloody screwed up this night. "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit ticked. You're allowed to have a spot with your friends, even if it's before dinner. I didn't mean to be an arse."

And that was a good enough apology for Sarah.

"You're a berk sometimes, John Watson."

And that was a good enough apology for John.

It took a few minutes of awkward silence for John to ask about the pregnant girl's husband. He wanted things to reverse, he wished he could control time so he could go back and think before he spoke.

Sherlock was probably going to be right, after all. A row and a broken mug definitely didn't fit into his plans of staying overnight.

After an hour, his mind cluttered with too much gossip to comprehend, he had fixed his mistake and was quiet obviously going to get on Sarah's good side.

"So Jean, she said that her son had never done it before, but it came out the next day that he had been arrested for it twice already!" Replying with the appropriate responses for all of the information that Sarah was pouring out, the sun was falling and the sky outside was getting darker by the minute- and the end of that story is when the weather took a turn for the worse.

"Oh, bugger, John, the rain! They said it would storm, but it wasn't supposed to hit until tomorrow!" Fussing about and peeking out the window, the storm barreled down hard and loud. "You've got to stay, you can't go out into that!"

Thirty minutes later, the two of them were heading to the bedroom for more than just a kip.

"Mm, Doctor Watson, you do so well at making me forget I was mad at you not just a few hours ago." The slender girl rested her head on her boyfriend's bare chest, squirming against him to get comfortable.

"That's my job, isn't it?" He chuckled, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her body closer to his. Sarah made a pleased sound, drawing slowly on his chest and smiling up at him. "I knew there was a reason you kept me around."

Content and warm and covered by a thin sheet that John had grabbed from the heap on the floor, they were humming with post-pleasure happiness, all smiles and sighs now. It was reassuring that he was so good he could get her to forgive him for breaking one of her mugs and accusing her of getting too friendly with another man.

There was nothing left to say, so they simply rolled onto their sides, John's arm tucked tightly around her waist with his body pressed up against her back. Completely unaware of the time or how the storm was, the couple fell asleep wrapped in each other, blissful and quiet.

Hours and hours passed by before the sun began peeking through the shades on the window from the girl's side of the bed. It trickled across the floor and the two bodies in the bed, warm and pale. Still early in the morning, far too early for a phone to be ringing so loudly.

Grumbling and nearly falling off the bed, John scoured the floor with his fingers until he felt his trousers. There was no need to open his eyes, he could easily guess who would call at such a ridiculous hour. He hurried to answer, not wanting to wake up his girlfriend with the insistent sound from his mobile.

"Sherlock," Grunting and rubbing at his eyes, he sighed and stayed half bent off the bed, fully prepared to drop the phone and go back to sleep if the call was pointless. "What do you want?"

"Have you just woken up? Sleeping is so dull! Hurry and rush back to the flat, Lestrade says there a case that Anderson can't sort out. It'll be a pleasure showing him how utterly useless he is." From the sounds of it, Sherlock hadn't slept at all, and even now, he was playing the violin while on his mobile.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, what hour is it? Can't this wait for a few?" Part of him just wanted to hang up and return the call later, when there were more than a handful of hours under his belt.

"John! I need my doctor!" He could practically hear the roll of the eyes on the other end of the line. "You are my doctor, are you not?"

"A doctor, yes. Your doctor, no. Your flatmate who needs to sleep like a normal human, absolutely. Bugger off."

More sounds on the other end of the line and a falter in the music that was being played; Sherlock was getting frustrated and grumpy, but at this point, John didn't care much. It was actually quite fun ticking off his friend.

"God forbid I have a normal life," John muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Fine, Sherlock, fine."

Pulling himself up onto the bed properly and hitching open his eyes, he squinted and wrinkled his nose at the odd smell.

"Hold on a mo' Sherlock," Taking the mobile from his ear and adjusting to the light of the room, he blinked over and over, staring at his girlfriend on the bed next to him. Something was definitely wrong, but his mind had to be playing tricks on him. The smell and the coloring all over, he recognised it. It was too familiar.

As soon as his senses and eyes caught up with his brain, there was an ear-shattering scream in the small room. The scream came from John himself, and he shoved himself so hard away from the sight that he fell off the bed and knocked into the floor beside it.

His blood curdled, his eyes stared unseeing, and his entire body went rigid.

"John! John Watson!"

The voice brought him out of his stupor and he slowly brought the phone back up to his ear. It didn't matter if he was hearing right or smelling right or feeling right, all he wanted to know is if his bloody line of vision was right.

"John, what the hell are you screaming about?"

John's hand pointed up to the bed, shaking worse than it had in his entire military career.

"Speak up, John, stop pointing, I can't see it!"

Sherlock was getting even more frustrated and antsy, completely thrown off course by hearing the screams over the other end of the line. His friend was babbling and making no sense at all; he couldn't get a single proper answer out of him for a good two minutes.

"S-Sherlock... Sherlock!" John's voice was cracking, a mixture of the early morning rise and the pure shock that was riveting throughout his body. "Sherlock, she's dead! Sarah's dead!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Sarah's dead!" John shouted, pointing at the bloodied body and shaking so hard he could barely hold his mobile to his ear.

"Stay where you are, John," Sherlock's voice demanded harshly, the violin stopping immediately. "Do not move to put on your trousers, do not move to open the door, do nothing. Do you understand me?"

The 'yes' reply was so quiet that even Sherlock nearly missed it.

"Stay on the line and tell me everything you see, every little detail," John nodded, whimpering quietly and leaning his head up to get a better look at the girl, trying to force his doctor instincts to take over. "Mrs. Hudson! Call up the Yard and tell them Lestrade needs to follow my orders, immediately!" Sherlock was taking over, controlling the situation. Not with excitement, not this time, but with horror and fear. "John, tell me what you see, now."

"B-blood," He was stuttering quite badly, silent sobs beginning to take over as the reality slammed over him. "A-all over the place..." When he looked down at himself, he realised his right side was covered in blood, and not a drop of it was his own. "Bloody hell!"

He couldn't speak straight after he saw the blood on his own body. The smell of it was making him even more nauseous than the sight of it. Not wanting to look at the body to closely, not wanting to think to hard on what was happening, he stammered into the mobile his pleads of help. He was a doctor, he should be used to this!

"You haven't touched a thing?" The voice snapped him out of his internal fog. "John, stop weeping and answer me." He was crying loud enough to be heard?

"No, nothing. Nothing, Sherlock!" Before he was able to stop himself and choke back another sob, a wretched noise burst from his chest and took over all reasoning that was left in him. No matter what was being said on the other end of the line- demands, questions, horrible attempts at consolation- John couldn't control himself anymore. He kept the phone up just so he could hear a distant voice reminding him not to do anything.

If he had his way, he'd run and grab Sarah, shake her, hold her, plead with her to still be alive. He'd shake himself, hit his head into the wall to try and wake himself from such a terrible nightmare.

There was a loud sound somewhere else in the flat, the sound of the door being kicked open and feet running all over the place. A steady flat line started up against his ear- Sherlock had disconnected- but the phone stayed exactly in place.

"John!" The footsteps got closer; within seconds there were a handful of people pouring into the bedroom. Sherlock didn't stop until he was crouched beside his friend, not touching him, just staring him down. Making deductions, evaluating the situation.

"Sherlock, don't touch him." John couldn't tell who was speaking. There were too many voices, too many people, and not enough explanations.

"Bloody hell, Anderson! Just check the God forsaken body and leave me be!" If John didn't know better, he would think that Sherlock was worried. Worried that he had killed his girlfriend.

The wreckage of his mind was beginning to dull down. His sobs were receding, only because now he wasn't alone. Able to stop thinking and trying to pick apart the situation he was in, it was easy to come down from the adrenaline shock. Still shaking, he finally managed to tear his eyes away from stupid Anderson prodding at Sarah's body with his stupid gloved fingers.

"Lestrade, get that damned shock blanket of yours and bring it here," Sherlock was still in control. He was still deducing, but now he was more focused on taking care of his only friend.

When the horrendous orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders and he was pulled from his seated position on the floor, John finally got his voice back.

"Sherlock, she's dead. My Sarah." His eyes flashed from the body of the girl he had been kissing just hours ago to the face of the man leading him out of the bedroom.

"I always through the freak was going to kill someone, but I guess it rubbed off, didn't it?"

"Can it, Donovan!" Lestrade scolded harshly after seeing every last drop of color drain from John's face.

He hadn't thought of it that way. All that was on his mind was the fact that she was dead. Oh, so stupid of him, of course he killed her! Who else would have done it? There was no way! He would have woken up, and if he hadn't done it, then why wasn't he killed too? He remembered the tea, the row, definitely the sex. Everything to falling asleep wrapped around her was firmly implanted in his mind, but after that, everything was blank, until he heard Sherlock's voice on the phone.

There was only one way this could have happened.

John was a murderer.

Donovan was right, in a way. It wasn't Sherlock that must have implanted the monster inside of him; it had to be the constant dead bodies and crime scenes that they saw.

"John. Listen to me. Recount every moment you spent with Sarah yesterday, from the moment you walked over the threshold to when we got here." Faintly realising that Sherlock was speaking to him, John tried to snap out of his horrid thoughts so he could do as asked. Lestrade and Donovan were watching and waiting while Anderson documented the body, his damn girlfriend. Sherlock wasn't paying him any attention, and it was obvious to everyone but John that he was decoding every inch of the flat.

"I got here just after dinner. I toed off my shoes and kissed her. She made her favorite cuppa for the both of us. The Yorkshire over on the counter there." He couldn't be sure he was pointing in the right spot; tears obscured the majority of his vision.

He told his story, even pieces about the romp with Sarah when Lestrade prodded for it. While recounting the row and the mug incident, John realised that he was naked, wearing nothing but the dreadful orange shock blanket. Half-heartedly pulling the blanket around himself, Lestrade was the next to speak.

"Sherlock? What do you have?" The DI was being more kind than usual, either because the witness/suspect was in earshot, or because of the strange relationship between everyone in the room. Probably a mix of both.

"Mug on the table, lipstick on a single spot on the rim. A matching mug thrown in the sink, cracked down one side from being tossed in frustration or anger. Two wine glasses with red wine-" He leaned in for a quick sniff of the glasses. "Full-bodied, Bordeaux, Cabernet Sauvignon. Imported from across the pond, at least seven years old. A selection that Mr. Watson doesn't drink without a paired lamb dish, of which there is obviously none."

Steadily pacing the floor and concentrating on a handful of items in the room, Sherlock narrowed his eyes over his friend. At least one of the two men could treat this as a real crime scene.

"Shoes by the door and jacket on the arm of the sofa show he's been here multiple times and knows how the flat owner likes things. Table chairs facing each other comfortably, possibly friends, more likely to be family or lovers. The patio door is unlocked- they felt safe being five floors up, even though there is access to a fire escape. Clothes strewn across the floor, here and there," He noted, pointing to the discarded garments. "Dropped in the heat of passion but not in the throws of a fiery lust. An exam of the young woman and you will discover that the intercourse was consensual."

In one ear and out the other- John heard what Sherlock was saying, but he didn't absorb a single piece of the genius's deductions.

"Right, uh, Anderson will get that done after he gets her out of here," Lestrade sat on the arm of the sofa, scratching his neck awkwardly. "John... John, I've got to take you to the station. Sherlock can get you trousers and a jumper from the flat, but you've got to come with us."

John didn't speak. He hardly had even but a thought in his mind. Ever since Donovan's words registered in his mind, he had been expecting this. Considering his was, no doubt, the one and only suspect, it would have been wrong for Lestrade not to book him. As he got up, John tried (and very nearly failed) to keep his legs from shaking as badly as the rest of him. The blanket was small; almost too small to keep him covered up once he was standing fully. Keeping his eyes to the floor and sighing so quietly that even Sherlock nearly missed the sound, the doctor shuffled behind the arresting officer, knowing they wouldn't put him in cuffs considering he had so little covering him up.

Lestrade attempted to make small talk while on the ride to Scotland Yard, hoping to distract John from all the thoughts racing through his mind. The blood all over the bed, all over him. The smug look on Donovan's face and the disappointed look on Sherlock's. Maybe it was shame? Disappointed and ashamed that one of his only friends would go and do such a heinous act.

It seemed to be hours before he was being pulled out and dragged to the nick. Or maybe it was just a matter of seconds. Either way, he couldn't tell anymore. His mind was fogged over and his body was going numb. 'You're in shock!' The doctor side of him pitched in, trying to burst the bubble of depressing haze.

He could feel himself going through the motions that he had seen a fair number of times now, after visiting the station with his flatmate. Too many people talking, fingerprints were taken. Too many questions, not enough answers. Too much pushing and prodding and photographs were taken.

Before he could catch up with his surroundings, he was being shoved into a small, dimly lit room with a familiar looking jumper pressed into his arms. There were trousers and socks, too. Using the bright shock blanket to clean himself off, John got dressed and tried to avoid the fact that the orange blanket turned a sickening shade of rust.

John recognised the room he was in, he had been in it only once before. In front of him was a mirror, a one-sided mirror. Months ago, he had been on the other side of it, watching the interrogation with Sherlock until the consulting detective burst into the room and ending it by claiming the criminal was blind in her left eye, and therefore she couldn't have committed the murder. He wondered if Sherlock was there now, watching him, decoding his every twitch and tremble.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. I'm Chief Inspector Marshall Raymond," The voice nearly startled John straight off his chair, but he managed to cling onto it for dear life while staring at the tall man that entered the room. "All I need from you right now is your statement. After that, you will have the choice of accepting legal representation. If you do not cooperate, I have already been given approval to keep you here for 96 hours."

John stared in awe. He was used to the way Lestrade or Donovan (or even any of the other inspectors) did things. This was harsh and blunt and the surprise of it all made his mind go utterly blank. All he had to do was tell the truth, well, what he remembered, at least. He certainly didn't recall murdering his girlfriend.

"Honest to God, sir, I've got no clue. I don't even second guess sparing a couple of quid to a homeless man, let alone hurt someone I love. It's just not who I am." John's words were barely out of his mouth before the door burst open behind the chief inspector.

"I need to speak with you immediately, chief." It was Sherlock, but the doctor couldn't tell if this was a good thing or not. His friend didn't spare a glance his way, and the door hid half of his face so he couldn't even attempt to pick out an emotion.

Within seconds, he was left alone in the cold room, no indication from the detective or the inspector as to the condition of his case. Definitely not looking good for him.

He shivered, unsure if it was because of the freezing metal of the table and chair, or if it was at the thought that he was a murderer. Another shudder brought on a horrid though: he already was a murderer. A handful of people certainly were taken by his hand during the war, intentionally or other, and even after the war... He had killed. For Sherlock. That very first case, with the cabbie, he had shot him in cold blood. Granted, to save his friend, but neither had come forward about it.

Fuck.

A few minutes later, (and too many frightening thoughts later), the chief inspector returned, followed closely by a nurse.

"We will need a blood sample, Doctor Watson, as well as an oral DNA sample," The man indicated the older woman beside him before dropping a pad of paper and a pen on the bare table. "After, you will fill out these pages with every detail you can remember from the moment you arrived at the victim's home yesterday evening. When you are finished, knock on the door and the awaiting officer will escort you to your holding cell. Do you understand?"

John opened and closed his mouth twice before nodding. Was he being charged, then? Before he could ask, before he could even think of the words, the chief inspector whipped from the room and the nurse approached him, a practiced smile on her face while she got to work.

No mention of Sherlock, no mention of the investigation. He should have known better than to expect full updates on what was going on, but he wasn't normally a suspect, let alone a bloody murder suspect, at that!

All he could do was as he was told, letting the nurse putter around him, taking the blood sample and the DNA sample, double-checking him for injuries.

There wasn't a speck on him, not a single attack wound or a scratch from the girl who had been murdered by his side. Who had done this? 

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><p>AN - Please review/favorite/etc. to let me know you're enjoying the story! xo


	3. Chapter 3

Finally, a case! And an interesting one at that. It had been nearly a month since the last good serial killer, and here was one that was figuratively making his tail wag.

Lestrade had phoned him with the news, saying there were three female bodies found in a park, dressed all in white, all seemingly poisoned. It looked like a ritual, except there was no evidence of religious markings anywhere.

Oh, he couldn't wait to share this with John, but the man had defied all odds and managed to stay the night at his girlfriend's house. Margaret or something? And worse on top of that, the doctor was taking ages to answer his mobile. It had nearly gone to voicemail by the time Sherlock heard a voice on the other end.

"Sherlock," Oh, the doctor had been woken by the sound of the phone. "What do you want?"

"Have you just woken up? Sleeping is so dull! Hurry and rush back to the flat, Lestrade says there a case that Anderson can't sort out. It'll be a pleasure showing him how utterly useless he is." Humming with his frustration, the detective picked up his violin and began to sort out the ending to a new piece he had been working on.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, what hour is it? Can't this wait for a few?" John was grumbling about. Must have been up late 'romping' or whatever he called it.

"John! I need my doctor!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and carefully set down his violin. "You are my doctor, are you not?"

"A doctor, yes. Your doctor, no. Your flatmate who needs to sleep like a normal human, absolutely. Bugger off. God forbid I have a normal life," It sounded like he was talking to himself at this point, but Sherlock couldn't be sure. His flatmate could be quite strange at times. "Fine, Sherlock, fine."

There was the man he knew! One mention of danger or violence and the man came running.

"Hold on a mo' Sherlock."

Something was wrong. The silence. The all too-quite silence turned into an ear-piercing scream. Definitely something wrong, but the man wasn't hearing him. He had said his name at least five times before there was a reaction. To say Sherlock was worried was an understatement. His friend never acted like this, and it was troubling. Questioning the man was almost useless, he couldn't understand a word that was being said, and knowing his doctor, the man was simply pointing at the thing Sherlock obviously couldn't see.

Then he heard it.

"Sherlock, she's dead! Sarah's dead!"  
>Well, fuck. That wasn't quite what he was expecting.<p>

Since the army doctor was gone and the horrified boyfriend was in his place, Sherlock took control and flew down the stairs, pulling on his coat and scarf while barking orders over the phone.

"Stay where you are, John. Do not move to put on your trousers, do not move to open the door, do nothing. Do you understand me?"

The 'yes' reply was so quiet that even Sherlock nearly missed it.

"Stay on the line and tell me everything you see, every little detail. Mrs. Hudson! Call up the Yard and tell them Lestrade needs to follow my orders, immediately!" He was banging on his landlady's door, his uncomfortable feelings over the situation sneaking through into his voice.

A million different situations flickered through his mind, everything from John having a flashback to Afghanistan to the doctor himself being the murder. No, that was wrong. He would never murder someone he cared about like that. It wasn't a war enemy and it wasn't a threat to a friend's life.

Racing away from Baker Street, Sherlock didn't bother to catch a cab. He knew the streets well enough to know that morning traffic would slow him down much more than could be allowed, and Sarah only lived a fifteen-minute run away.

(He would never forget her name again, not after hearing his only friend screaming it).

Apparently Mrs. Hudson listened to him and phoned the Yard with all of the information Sherlock had given her, because when he arrived at the young woman's apartment, Lestrade was seconds behind with his buffoons in tow.

The head buffoon realised it was the wrong time for proper greetings and said his hello's by busting in the front door of apartment 3C.

The smell was obviously blood, and lots of it. All contained to the bedroom, through, interesting. He barely took in all the deductions he needed to, instead rushing to help his friend in need. The man was curled up so small, sobbing and staring at the bloody mess that had been left in the bed above him.

"Sherlock, don't touch him." God damn, Anderson had followed him.

"Bloody hell, Anderson! Just check the God forsaken body and leave me be!" Sherlock was worried enough without that daft fool interfering. He was a bit too busy trying to make sure his friend wasn't injured. And wasn't a murderer.

"Lestrade, get that damned shock blanket of yours and bring it here." The one time he needed it, and the man didn't have it at the ready. What good were these damned detectives? They weren't doing a single useful thing.

"Sherlock, she's dead. My Sarah." The horrors in those eyes were as clear as day, and as frightening as could be. Sherlock had never seen John like this, so afraid and in pain. Well, except that one time when a criminal slashed him with a butcher knife. And that time a criminal ran over his foot with a car. But those were different. That was just physical pain. This pain, this was heart-wrenching, gut-clenching pain and it hurt to look at. Even for Sherlock, master of unfeeling.

"I always through the freak was going to kill someone, but I guess it rubbed off, didn't it?"

"Can it, Donovan!" He almost wanted to thank Lestrade, but his time was better spent tending to the still alive victim than to a man he hardly cared about.

"John. Listen to me. Recount every moment you spent with Sarah yesterday, from the moment you walked over the threshold to when we got here." John was barely listening, but he was evidently feeling better now that he was surrounded by living people that were there to help him out.

Listening intently to every word and sound he made, Sherlock transitioned from helping a friend to detective mode, spying out each individual thing in the rooms. Surely he would be used to help solve the case even if he was close to the living victim. Otherwise Lestrade would never figure out who had really murdered the girl that Anderson was tending to in the other room.

"Sherlock? What do you have?"

"Mug on the table, lipstick on a single spot on the rim. A matching mug thrown in the sink, cracked down one side from being tossed in frustration or anger. Two wine glasses with red wine-" He leaned in for a quick sniff of the glasses. Ah, a wonderful wine, one he had on many occasions at Mother's. "Full-bodied, Bordeaux, Cabernet Sauvignon. Imported from across the pond, at least seven years old. A selection that Mr. Watson doesn't drink without a paired lamb dish, of which there is obviously none." Clearly these people didn't know John at all, if they thought he would have a red wine without a meal. There had been another man there, which set off John and the two got into a 'domestic' (as Mrs. Hudson would call it).

He paced, eyes flickering from one thing to the next, taking in every minute detail that normal idiots wouldn't see even with proper direction.

"Shoes by the door and jacket on the arm of the sofa show he's been here multiple times and knows how the flat owner likes things. Table chairs facing each other comfortably, possibly friends, more likely to be family or lovers. The patio door is unlocked- they felt safe being five floors up, even though there is access to a fire escape. Clothes strewn across the floor, here and there," Sherlock said, pointing at the clothes scattered about. "Dropped in the heat of passion but not in the throws of a fiery lust. An exam of the young woman and you will discover that the intercourse was consensual."

Before he knew it, John was being ushered out of the apartment and being taken to the Yard. He was going to be charged with murder even though it was blatantly evident that he did no such thing.

Now was Sherlock's chance to do his work. Without John or Lestrade to bother him (though Donovan and Anderson were both there still), he could finally get to inspect the remnants of the crime scene.

He had to prove his friend's innocence.

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><p>AN - This one's a bit short and didn't include everything I wanted it to, but it's one am and I've got to wake up at five am so this is all you get for now. The next chapter might not be up for another week or so, sorry!

Please review/favorite/etc. I'll love you if you do! (No, really, I'm serious!)


	4. Chapter 4

Every fiber of his being was set on one thing: solving this crime. His mind was clearer than it had been in quite a while, and every single one of his senses was more focused than was easily possible. It could not be more obvious that John Watson, a doctor and an army man to the core, had not murdered his girlfriend in the night. Especially not over something as trivial as the woman having a glass of wine with another man. Although, maybe this was one of those things. One of those emotional things that Sherlock just didn't understand. That was certainly possible.

There had been many a time when John had killed. He knew that, and so did many others. Not just during the war, either. The first case, just days after the two had met, the man had killed a cabbie to save the consulting detective. And months later, there had been a time when he literally snapped a man's neck to save Lestrade from being the next victim in a line of quite gruesome murders. The count for the times John had offered to risk his own life or take the life of another all for Sherlock was quite extensive (twenty-seven times, to date).

John would never kill like this. Not someone he knew, not someone he cared about, and certainly not so messily. And, Sherlock hoped, not so blatantly. If the doctor was to kill, hopefully he would be smart enough to take notes from crimes they've solved as to keep himself as innocent as possible. Or he could at least make an interesting and challenging case for Sherlock. (Like whoever had really done this, because finding out the real murderer was possibly going to be a fair challenge).

The details were more important than ever, every tiny little piece of evidence had to be properly dealt with. Unfortunately, that meant Sherlock had to cooperate with Anderson and the other idiots to make sure they didn't screw this one up. The first time the detective asked the forensics team to print the sliding glass door, the whole team stopped and stared as if he grew a second head. How ridiculous, all he did was ask them instead of order. If such mundane things surprised them, it was no wonder they couldn't wrap their small minds around complex challenges like the murders he was called in on so often.

Sherlock was roaming the bedroom in silence when he started making the real progress. Sniffing at the blood and peeling back the bed sheets with gloved fingers, he could easily take in every little detail. Freshly washed sheets (washed the day before in anticipation of a visitor). Fairly new pillows (Sarah used the same one every night, the other hand only been used three times). The smell of coconut shampoo and pineapple deodorant more defined on one side of the bed, the other reeked of sandalwood and the ridiculous scent of mint-y men's shampoo. Something was off, though. The blood on the sheets flowed like normal, the thickness was exactly what he expected for the temperature, time and the fact that the girl had anemia. The arterial spray was proper for a single slice across the carotid artery done by a right-handed man. Another thing working in John's favor.

But the smell. There was one damned smell that didn't fit. And it was throwing Sherlock off. A sweet smell with no definite location amongst the bedding or room.

John didn't remember anything. He didn't hear his girlfriend being murdered, and he wasn't harmed. He was dazed and confused and not an ounce of his military or medical training had kicked in.

CHCI3.

"Chloroform!" Sherlock shouted, turning to Anderson. "Check the body for chloroform."

Pacing and steepling his fingers at his lips, Sherlock was making calculations and forming theories. There were seven before the discovery- now there was only three. And the biggest one was the most worrying. Though if that was the proper one, a mistake had been made. A right-handed assassin. Plain foolish letting that one slip!

"Chloroform," Anderson muttered, grunting and scribbling on his notepad as he glared at Sherlock. "Only the freak would think up that."

Not bothering to reply, the detective was far too deep into his mind to pay any attention to the foolish ramblings of an idiot.

"Chloroform," Sherlock repeated, his eyes snapping open. "Anderson! You stay here; I'm off to the Yard. Treat this as if your dear mother was the suspect. If you mess this one up, Donovan might finally be correct about me."

"What does that mean?" How could the man not recall the constant insult his lover threw at the detective?

"I will be the cause of a crime scene. Yours, specifically." Turning on his heel and marching from the room, Sherlock allowed the smallest of smirks flash across his features before he shoved his way into a cab, pushing someone out of his way with a simple shout of 'police!'.

If John had been controlled with chloroform, there could still be traces in his blood stream. The chemical was known to disperse quickly, but if there was such a large amount used that Sherlock could still sniff it out hours later, there had to be some evidence on the doctor still. If John was chloroformed while Sarah was murdered, there was a chance of two people being present at the time of the crime. One would need to keep the doctor sedated the entire time- it was highly likely that he would wake up during the murder if masked with the substance just once.

It wasn't difficult to find out where John was being held; Lestrade was milling around one of the interrogation rooms looking rather nervous. Sherlock pushed past the detective, easily avoiding the arm that shot out to pull him back. He managed to refrain throwing the door open and shouting, but that was possibly due to his surprise that the Chief Inspector was the one interviewing John. He had worked with the man but once before. Hard headed and utterly in charge of everything, CI Raymond was one of the few people who didn't insult Sherlock on a regular basis. Though, that didn't mean for a second that the man was going to listen to him the way Lestrade would.

"I need to speak with you immediately, chief." Sherlock half-hid himself behind the door and focused on only the older gentleman. He couldn't risk looking at his friend. Not only would it bring up strange emotions (guilt, he reasoned, knowing it was likely his fault that the man was in this position), but also it could possibly compromise the investigation.

If Sherlock wasn't allowed to work on this one, there was not a doubt in his mind that John would be convicted of murder. Donovan, Anderson and team were all too stupid to notice the right-handed form of killing, let alone notice the chloroform or the open sliding door that led to the fire escape. They probably wouldn't even DNA test the mysterious wine glass if Sherlock hadn't told them to.

He would have to play nice. How infuriatingly busying.

"What is it, Holmes? Don't think your partner is getting off easy on this one just because he puts up with you." The Chief grunted, closing the door behind him and crossing his arms over his chest. For a short man, he acted as if he was twelve feet tall. Reminding himself to be polite to get what he wanted, Sherlock kept himself from commenting on the man's cheating wife or pregnant teen daughter.

"Check him for chloroform." He said in his nicest tone, even managing to keep any glint of distaste from his voice.

"Chloroform?" CI Raymond frowned, waving a nurse over to join them. "You think he used it on that girl he killed?"

"I think it was used on him while another person killed that girl," Sherlock corrected, wincing at his own use of 'think' instead of demanding that he knew better than anyone else. "He must still have some in his body. If the real suspect used it only one time, the doctor would have woken up not a moment later. When he did wake up, he was on the phone with me. He was disoriented; he didn't know what was happening. Disorientation is related to use of chloroform, as well as delayed reactions. Mr. Watson did not employ any of his medical or military training, thus giving more evidence towards the use of a substance."

"Fine, Holmes. We'll check him out for chloroform, but we're not releasing him until this is figured out. You hear me? You tread lightly here, or you'll be thrown out. If you don't do this right, you'll never be accepted to help the Met again." Holding back an irritated eye roll, Sherlock nodded roughly and turned to Lestrade.

"Come on Sherlock, back to my office. Give me everything you've got." Lestrade sighed, nodding his head away from the hall of interrogation rooms and back out towards the section of offices. Sherlock lead the way, eyes focused in front of him to avoid glaring at any of the eyes staring at him.

If he were paying them attention, he would hear the whispers. He would know that the majority of the department was questioning Sherlock's involvement in the investigation. They were all wondering if he had done it, or had anything to do with it. Had he driven John mad? Killed his flatmate's girlfriend out of jealousy? Was he covering up for the doctor's killer fit of rage?

Bypassing the gossip and going straight to the truth, the consulting detective cornered the detective inspector the moment they made it to his glass office.

"He didn't do it." Sherlock hissed, narrowing his alien eyes and shoving a long finger into Lestrade's chest.

"I know, Sherlock! I was going to ask who you think did do it," Lestrade sighed, sliding his way around the tall, angry man to make his way to his desk. "I want to hear everything you have. I want to help John."

Protesting that his skull would be better to talk to, Sherlock quickly gave in and told him everything. From the sweet smell of the chemicals on the bed (on the pillows, mainly) to the heavy shoeprints in the carpet (barely visible, men's size ten). Every little detail was repeated multiple times, written down and connected both in Sherlock's mind and with a red pen on Lestrade's notepad.

There were no clues, not until they processed the fingerprints and DNA evidence.

For now, there was hardly a case to prove John's innocence. It was easily said that the murder was committed right-handed, but the DI insisted they could twist that around and say that John simply switched hands.

There was very little blood on John, certainly nothing like what would come from the wound the victim received. He could have cleaned himself, yes, but there was absolutely no evidence of that. No dirty washcloths in the bathroom, no traces of blood on the floor and no traces in the sink. Whoever did this was skilled enough to cover their tracks, but stupid enough not to properly convict John.

Surprisingly, Lestrade was keeping on track for the most part, and even offering up some almost-plausible reasons for the situation. He suggested that they allow John to stay behind bars for a day or two, so the real criminal would feel safe. Perhaps they were stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime. It was absolutely possible; people did tend to boast at the most ridiculous of times.

They agreed to keep an officer at the flat, paying constant attention to all entrances just in case the man came back the same way. Another thing they agreed on was that Sherlock's involvement was to stay quiet- even people in the department should know very little about the consulting detective's participation in the investigation.

Noting the prospect of Sherlock being framed as well, Lestrade settled with being the middleman. If Sherlock needed to get information to anyone at the Yard, the DI would be the one to do it. And if they needed him for anything, he would be contacted through him as well. He couldn't even speak with John, if he wanted it to seem like it wasn't planned or that he wasn't covering up for the other man.

It was positively aggravating, but it was for the best.

Alone in a cell (per his own request), Sherlock stared at the bland wall while he organized his thoughts. Having to forfeit himself to his Mind Palace to work properly, it was essential that he worked as quickly and as perfectly as he possible could to capture the true culprit.

The heavy shoe tracks (tennis shoes, size ten, large gait), the glove prints on the sliding door (soft leather, new gloves, large hands), the clean area around the dead body (not a drip on the floor, something had been laid out to catch excess blood). It all added up to one thing. A set-up. Planned to a T. Or nearly so, at the very least. Many small mistakes were made, and they were quickly adding up. Only a smart man could think up such a thing. Someone with a grudge against John, or Sherlock. A hired hit man, of course. Only a hired man could have a good plan only to bugger it up so badly.

So who had a grudge against the two, and had the money to hire a man to successfully break in, murder and escape?

Who else would want to make the doctor look like a murderer? Who else would want to put Sherlock and John look like bad people?

One person.

Jim Moriarty.

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><p>AN - I tried my best to write like Sherlock thinks. Shit is about to go down, though! Moriarty's sloppy henchman didn't trick Sherlock, oops. Rate/favorite/etc please xo.


	5. Chapter 5

Jail wasn't fun. Jail was frightening; it was cold like the cement slab he had to sleep on. John was thankfully put in a single-man cell, so he didn't have to interact with the murderers and kidnappers and thieves. At least Lestrade had done something for him.

John was a soldier to the bone, but that could only get him so far against three hundred pound men that were a foot taller than him.

Two days. Two days behind bars and he still had no clue what was happening. Mrs. Hudson had visited him, once, the day before, to give him home-baked goods. Lestrade and Molly had both stopped by, only to tell him that they believed him. Even Donovan had paused by his cell to tell him to chin up.

Sherlock never stopped by.

The one person who could help him, give him information and make him feel like he was going to get out of this hell. And he wasn't even blinking his direction.

He was alone, with no way to prove that he was innocent. His girlfriend was dead (murdered, his thoughts reminded him). His best friend was nowhere to be found (no one would tell him anything about Sherlock's whereabouts). John was screwed.

Every day he was in there, the Chief Inspector interrogated him. Two times so far. Three, he corrected himself, eyeing the officer that was heading his way. Apparently it was time to lock him in a cold cement room and argue with him for another hour or two. It's not like he was changing his story or adding any proper information! John felt absolutely absurd repeating himself so many times in a row.

"I told you, I woke up and she was dead," He groaned, resting his head on the cool table in front of him. His hands were cuffed to the metal chair he was sitting in, his ankles shackled together as well. "I swear, we went to bed happy! Of course we had, we had just shagged!" John was so frustrated that he wasn't being decent anymore. What was the use of beating around the bush when they forced him to speak every little detail anyway?

"You're leaving something out, Mr. Watson." The CI simply replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. The bastard liked to show off his freedom.

"I am not! I've told you everything, what more do you want?" John whimpered, struggling a little bit against the chair, hating the limited movement that he was allowed.

"I want the truth. Your girlfriend did not die of her own accord. You are the only missing piece, are you not?" He asked, raised a slightly manicured eyebrow at the doctor.

"Obviously you are missing something, because I didn't kill her!" John groaned, more tired of the constant questioning and blatant disregard of his words than the implication behind them, at this point. In two days, he had gotten over the fact that strangers considered him to be a murderer. He hadn't forgotten Sarah. Hell, he dreamed about her every moment his eyes closed. But another thought had haunted him, as well. Lestrade had played with the possibility of him being a killer. Sally and Anderson and all of the people he had worked with in the past thought it was possible. That hurt. Those people should have known better!

And then there was Sherlock. Not a single word from him, not even a glance in his direction since the detective broke into the flat. If Sherlock assumed he was the reason for Sarah's death, then he had no way of getting free. If his best friend thought him the killer, there was hardly a reason to want to be free. Sherlock probably didn't want him anyway.

They argued back and forth for nearly an hour longer, John repeating his innocence and the CI demanding more. The two went over every detail, every creak in the night and exactly every little thing that happened when he woke up.

"And you're telling me you didn't smell the blood when you answered the phone?" The Chief asked, smirking slightly as if he had John pinned right where he wanted him.

"I told you, I smelled something but I didn't know it was blood. I was delirious, the phone woke me and I was half asleep until I saw her." Glancing warily at the mirror behind the CI, John wished he could see a familiar face. One that didn't accuse him of murder. It was exhausting to go through this.

His days were clouded between real criminals looking at him as if he were a piece of meat, officers looking at him like he turned Sarah into a piece of meat, and wishing he could eat real meat. He was being questioned so often, he expected them to brainwash him into believing that he had done it after all. John didn't expect to last much longer, here. They hadn't officially charged him yet, but he had no idea why. It's as if they were waiting until the end of the 96-hour limit before actually accusing him. That made no sense. He had seen it time and time again, a suspect getting charged as soon as they were arrested. Were they waiting for evidence or something? Because, from a stranger's point of view, there was nothing more needed.

"Alright, Watson, back to your cell. You better keep thinking, because things will not be looking good for you if you insist on telling this same lie over and over." John just grunted, letting an officer uncuff him from the cold chair just to cuff his wrists back together. God, he really never wanted to be used to the feeling of being in handcuffs, but at this rate, he was going to be far too familiar with it all.

Left back to his thoughts and lonely, cold cell, John sat on the floor against the wall and pulled his knees to his chest. Without the chains on his ankles or wrists, he could have spread out and laid bare eagle on the floor, relishing in the freedom of less-limited movement. But no matter how unchained he was, there was only so much space for him to roam. There was almost no room to even pace properly. Not that pacing was going to help anything.

Nothing was going to help.

Being nice to people was extraordinarily difficult. If John hadn't been Sherlock's only friend, there wasn't a chance that he would even take a glance at such a case. Hell, if he hadn't known the doctor so well, even being his flatmate, he wouldn't look at the case.

But he did know him. And he knew that John Watson wasn't the murderer.

There were so many things that the forensic team missed, so many little things that stood out to him as if there were flashing signs hanging over them. And Sherlock had to _politely_ ask Anderson for a pair of tweezers to pick up a hair follicle he had spotted on the carpeted flooring by the patio door. He managed to refrain from lashing out at the stupid blind ways of the detectives and the others, which seemed to work considering the officers were all being equally (and oddly) pleasant.

Straining his eyes to pick up every little detail, Sherlock steeped his fingers under his lips and narrowed his gaze, focusing solely on the position of the two chairs at the small dining table. John had sat there last, but there were still traces of a previous occupant. A man, slender and dressed on a higher scale than the dead woman was used to. Though, the marks of the chairs on the freshly vacuumed floor suggested that the two were familiar. A family friend, or a co-worker, possibly. They had spoken many times; the seats were too close for them to have been strangers. The dips of the chair were deeper than where John sat (slightly farther from the table, closer to Sarah, heavier at the back indicating relaxation). The first imprints, the ones left by the mysterious man, they were pressed towards the front- he was leaning in, talking quietly probably. The glass of wine was used without a coaster; a slight ring of discoloration on the wood proved that. DNA would be easy to get from the glass, which left the question: Why?

Moriarty was smart, far too smart for something so sloppy. He sent a henchman, obviously, but who was it? Did the man really not know how to do his job, or was dear Jim from IT sending him a message? 'Hey, look at me! I can ruin your only mate's life!'?

He wouldn't put it past the consulting criminal.

"Oi, Freak, aren't you going to eat something?" Donovan snapped him out of his thoughts, waving a hand in front of his face with an impatient sigh. The woman was offering him food, now? How odd.

"I will not eat while I am on a case, Donovan. Do try to keep down the others with their loud chewing, though, I am trying to work here." Sherlock simply replied, sparing a glance up in her direction. She looked tired and stressed. Clean knees; Anderson's wife must be home from her holiday in the country. But there was something else. She actually seemed worried for the good doctor, worried that he had turned into a murderer. The detective was wary of Sherlock, almost more than before, either nervous that he would lash out if she said something negative about John or nervous that it was true, he couldn't tell which.

Taking that advice and nodding, she quickly hurried into the hall to leave him alone again. Ah, it seemed like she was heeding his warning this time. Splendid, now he could go to his mind palace without any interruptions.

Using his mental list of Moriarty's known contacts, Sherlock organized them all by rank and likelihood of being able to pull off such a stunt. Throwing out all the woman, left-handed men, and overweight men, it left an unfortunately extensive list. Without much knowledge of the men still left, he could only remove a handful more- those who were not known for murder, drinking red wine (they often seemed to prefer beer, the lower on the list), and those without any possible contact to Sarah Sawyer.

There were a handful of people left, all dark haired, medium height and weight, right-handed men. Fourteen of them, actually. Three were known to use guns instead of knives, so he tossed them. Eight had an unusual passion for torture and hearing their victims scream, so they were also placed in the 'useless' folder.

Three left. One could pass as a maintenance man for the clinic (his favorite disguise was a delivery boy, though). The second often went overboard and killed all the people in a room, rather than leaving someone living. The third though... The man had military training, was fairly close to the man at the top, had a small bit of medical knowledge... That was the man. He was a marksman (a spot-on one, at that), but had once used the same method on a civilian before he was dishonorably discharged from the military.

If he was right (he suspected he was), then John knew the man.

Oh! He got him now! There was no need to DNA the hair or the glass (though he demanded for it still; just for conformation, for rock-solid proof). Moriarty was playing him, though. And Sherlock couldn't easily tell why. That was going to bother him like an itch he couldn't scratch.

Storming out of the flat and ignoring the calls of the officers, Sherlock moved as fast as he possibly could, barely stopping on his way, hurdling to a halt outside of the cold room. He stared, frowning and hesitating before stepping forward, Sherlock hated what he was seeing. John was curled up against the wall, wearing the same bleary prison uniform that all the other (the real) criminals were wearing. He actually felt emotions stirring in the pit of his stomach at the sight (anger, he noted, and sadness). John looked like he was falling apart, minute-by-minute, stuck in this cold hard room.

"John. Sebastian Moran killed Sarah." His voice was soft, as if his friend was sleeping and he didn't want to wake him. The doctor looked up at him, eyes wide with fear and information and shock and so many other emotions that Sherlock couldn't pick up on.

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><p>AN - A tiny bit short but I'm exhausted. To everyone who favorited/alerted/reviewed this, _thank you so much_. I can't explain how much it means to me! (And in case it wasn't obvious, I don't really know anything about Moran from ACD's canon). Keep reviewing/favoriting/etc.


	6. Chapter 6

"Moran?" John repeated slowly, his voice rough with sleepiness. He let the information process, coming to the realisation that he knew the name from somewhere.

"Yes, John, he served at the same time that you did," Before John could speak, Sherlock continued. "Dishonorably discharged for brutally killing a civilian. Part of Moriarty's inner circle, one of the higher ups for being a hit man. Known for getting his missions directly from the boss and fulfilling them to a perfect level."

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments, Sherlock taking in the haggard look of his friend. Without trying, he mentally supplied information on the doctor's condition. Six hours of sleep or less for each night he's been confined in the holding cell. Interrogated three times; pushed close to the edge of breaking. He's going to be forced to admit fault although he didn't commit the crime. Worry... Worried that he actually did it? No, more like worried that everyone else thought he did. Worried that Sherlock wasn't investigating. John was frustrated and angry with the man questioning him so often, scared that the implications were right, happy and relieved to see Sherlock and to know the man was working his case.

"Sherlock..." John muttered after a few minutes, standing up and approaching the bars. The consulting detective didn't look like he had slept in days (probably didn't), hadn't eaten in a week (also true), and hadn't stopped working and thinking since John told him Sarah was dead over the mobile (no doubt about that).

"There's no time to chat, John. I've got work to do. Stay strong, you know the truth." Sherlock nodded, hesitating before touching the bars and flashing a small quirk of a smile. He turned to leave; eyeing the doctor once more and making a mental note to have him see a therapist when he got out from the prison.

John sighed and watched his friend leave, curling back up on the ground and frowning at the spot where Sherlock was standing not a minute ago. Alone again. At least he knew that Sherlock was on his side now. And had given him useful information. He knew enough about Moran to put together the pieces.

While John was left with his thoughts and memories, Sherlock sped upstairs to the small hall of offices. Not bothering to knock, he entered Lestrade's office and cleared his throat. The DI looked up from his paperwork with a quiet groan, leaning back in his chair to look at Sherlock.

"What is it?" He asked, scrubbing at his tired face.

"Do you recall the name Moran?" Sherlock questioned, plopping himself into the chair closest to him and steepling his fingers under his chin. Lestrade squinted, trying to remember and obviously failing. Of course he wouldn't remember, the man hardly remembered a thing. "Sebastian Moran. Also known at Moriarty's right hand man." A look of realisation crossed the DI's face. Digging through the files on his desk, Lestrade rifled threw a few of them before settling on a single one, reading it hastily.

"Killed a civilian the same way he killed John's girlfriend." Lestrade gasped, gripping the file tighter and sending Sherlock an unsure look. They exchanged a single nod, then both were up and out and heading straight towards Chief's office. Lestrade knocked before Sherlock could bust in, giving him a dark look. If they wanted cooperation, they'd have to play by the rules and play nicely, at that.

When they were finally let into the office, Sherlock told the CI every single detail. From the blood splatter to the military training and the dead civilian left in his wake. Without leaving a single detail out, the consulting detective handed over the file on Moran, the file that he had composed but a month earlier during his effort to weed out every associate of Jim.

Resigning to politeness, Sherlock told them his theory (how he despised considering it just a theory and not proof). He had to agree to waiting for the DNA test to confirm before making a move on the true criminal. That also meant that if the tests weren't finished by the next day, then John would be officially charged with murdering his girlfriend. They all knew it would be so much harder to deal with if he got charged.

"I've been tracking him since I have learned of him. There will be no trouble in capturing him once it is confirmed," Sherlock started, steepling his fingers and closing his eyes as he focused on all the details in his mind. Facts compiled in proper order, spelling out everything he needed. "He will be armed, there's no doubt about that. There is a chance, though, of two other people being with him. Also armed, though not as trained or skilled, so they will be reckless and on high alert if there is a threat. As a high member in Moriarty's court, Moran should be brought in live. He has information that can prove to be very useful to this country as a whole."

The three men sat in the office for two hours, going over every aspect of the case and the men at large. As if Anderson was on his side for once, the man rushed his forensics team into providing them with a DNA analysis before the day was out. And sure enough, when the CI's shift was nearly over, Anderson and Donovan popped into the office to announce that it was confirmed that Moran was their man. The feeling of rush was all around, each member in the room seemed to want to help out the doctor downstairs (even the Chief seemed eager to participate). Assembling all of the members of the force that were volunteering to help, the group got on their way to planning their attack. Ten Met officers in total, plus Sherlock, made it obvious that they were going to come out the victors.

The proof that John was innocent was piling all around them. Anderson's team agreed with Sherlock's analysis of the arterial spray as well as the lack of blood on John's body or clothing. The weapon was nowhere to be found (added to the short list of things to search for when Moran was caught). Everyone was listening to Sherlock deduce and shorten the list of possible locations where Sebastian could be; everyone was on his side. No one was arguing or pointing out possible faults or even asking where he got the information. It wasn't a secret how hard he had worked gathering information on Moriarty and his entire team. The entire Yard knew that.

At the end of another two hours, the plans had been set. It had been narrowed down to two possible spots for the criminal to be at. Half the team would see to one spot, the other half (and Sherlock) would go to the other. One was a semi-populated section of run down houses at the edge of London; the other was a set of empty offices and warehouses along the edge of the Thames.

"Wait, what about John? Should we let him out?" Lestrade asked, grabbing Sherlock's arm and looking at the lift that led to the holding cells. Shaking his head in response, the consulting detective sighed and dragged the officer with him.

"If we let him out now, someone will try to make it seem as if he had a hand in convicting Moran. Which could be seen as messing with the records. Understand?" The DI simply nodded, checking to make sure he had his gun and vest on him before leaving on the convoy.

It had been decided that there would be three men wherever Moran was, all armed with guns (at least one of those being a semi-automatic). The likelihood of someone being hurt was high, and the chances of getting the man out alive weren't so high. If they wanted him, they had to hurry.

Moriarty was smart. Smart enough to know that Moran was going to be caught (he wouldn't have gotten such a lame hit man, if he cared). The question was if Moran was that smart. There was enough evidence against him that charges would be filed. If the man escaped, he was prone to be hunted down by the big man himself. Moriarty wasn't going to let him get away with such an obvious murder; he'd either get killed or put in prison.

And they wanted him alive.

He was right. The warehouse on Thames. Three men (all with semi-automatics though). Sneaking into the building was the easy part, but capturing them was a tad more difficult than expected. Two officers were shot down before even one of the criminals was taken down. Sherlock hung back slightly, examining the room and the men and whispering to Lestrade every time he saw one of them make a move in their direction.

The men were panicking, just as to be expected from amateurs. Even Moran seemed to be surprised at the appearance of officers.

Before he could blink, one was dead (Herrings, his mind supplied) and both Moran and the third (Devon) were handcuffed and facedown on the ground. A medic rushed into to check the wounded officers (Lestrade did something right for once, by making sure the ambulance stayed near).

Digging and rooting through the filing cabinets, Sherlock took all of the information in as fast as he possibly could before the Met confiscated them. Information about Moriarty's contacts, lists of exchanges and deals and various criminal activities. None of which actually named James Moriarty. He was pleased to find that many of the men underneath him would be able to face persecution, though, after Scotland Yard searched through each file. So many cold cases could be solved with the help of these files. But he didn't care about that, just yet.

Ah, just as he thought. The idiots had files explaining the details of Sarah Sawyer's murder.

"Chief Inspector, I think you will find everything in this file," He flashed a look of pleasure at the CI. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to retrieve my friend from his cell before he goes insane." Striding off and smirking at the handcuffed men, Sherlock thumped Lestrade on the back as a simple thank-you.

"Lestrade, my good man, I say it's time to let the doctor out of his cage." Together, they made their way back to the station, both lighter than they had been in days. Both looked on the verge of either eating any sort of food that came in their way or sleeping on the first comfortable thing they saw.

But the moment they stepped into the station, they knew something was wrong.

Not stopping for a soul, Sherlock hurtled down to the cells only to see the one thing he desperately didn't want to see.

There was no John, but there was a regrettably familiar face.

"Hello, little brother."

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><p>AN - A little short again, sorry. I've been distracted by my other fics. I'm hoping to have one of them up before the end of the week, but we'll see. And please keep the reviews/favorites/alerts coming, it's great to know you guys love the story!


	7. Chapter 7

"Mycroft," Sherlock hissed, glaring at his older brother and keeping his distance, eying the cell John had been in earlier. "Where is he?" There was no need to be nice any longer, especially if his brother was involved.

"Oh, he was taken upstairs by an officer. To get his belongings, I presume," Mycroft shrugged absently, swinging his umbrella and smirking at Sherlock. "You did quite well on this, Sherlock. I suppose I'm impressed."

Growing and considering a swipe at Mycroft, Sherlock turned on his heels and fled up the stairs. Pausing for a fraction of a second to recall where the collection station was, he huffed with annoyance and headed across the station to where they processed each criminal. Scanning the small crowd with narrowed eyes, he didn't spot the familiar close-shaved head of hair anywhere. The military man was nowhere to be seen.

Slamming his fists on the desk, Sherlock seethed at the small woman staring up at him.

"Where is John Watson?" He asked, his eyes calculating every person and every movement around him. The woman stuttered, eyes wide and horrified at the man nearly screaming at her. Snarling, Sherlock grabbing her by the collar and pulled her forward. She squeaked and pointed over his shoulder and to the right, her little hand shaking with nerves.

Spinning around and evaluating the group of officers, he could tell that they had nothing to do (other than sleep with each other and drink until their liver's failed).

"You!" He barked, closing in on the group. Sherlock had worked with a few of these idiots at one point or another, and he was sure John was with him during those cases. "Where's John? He's been through here." Half of the group stared at him as if her were a madman or speaking another language, the other half looked like they had no idea what he meant by 'John'.

"Who?" One dared to ask (new, transfer from Italy, born in France), raising an eyebrow as if he was challenging the consulting detective.

"Bloody hell, does sleeping with three women at once render you lot even more daft than usual? John Watson! Captain, military doctor, short, just released from murder charges." Sherlock scanned each officer quickly; fully prepared to insult them all until they gave him the information he wanted.

"Oh, I- uh, I think he went that way, towards Lestrade's office." The officer mumbled, looking at his shoes (embarrassed in front of his friends).

Glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance in his direction, Sherlock was infuriated with the incompetence of the Met. He was looking for one man! A man who had not only been seen many times at the station before, but who had been imprisoned for days at this point, and not a single one of these buffoons could help him? Huffing and storming towards the DI's office, the consulting detective studied his surroundings, trying to pull any piece of his friend's whereabouts from the laces on the tall female's shoes or from the frown on the old officer's face. There were too many people and John had visited too many times; there were too many traces and not enough at the same time.

Finally bursting into Lestrade's office, Sherlock's eyes bounced from object to object, picking each thing apart. Lestrade's wife had moved out, took the kids with her. Donovan had been in recently, sharing a personal story, something made her cry. John had stopped by. Reason: unknown. The detective was leaning back in his chair, comfortable, unworried. A positive conversation, at the very least.

"Where is he?" He asked, pacing for a moment as he tried to ignore everything that wasn't John (affairs and cold cases were not his problem, at the moment). Grating his teeth and grabbing at the back of the chair across from Lestrade's desk, he raised an eyebrow and waited.

"Just missed him, Sherlock! I think he was headed back down to the cells to find you-" Sherlock was gone before the sentence was even finished. He could hear the man calling after him, but he chose to ignore him in favor of the man he had just freed from an unjustified prison term.

Pushing past the crowd that had gathered around a rowdy convict, Sherlock fumed at the people blocking his path.

"He already sold the goods!" He called over his shoulder, very nearly elbowing a young girl out of his way in his rush. The police officer holding the suspect shouted at Sherlock to stop and explain, but he casually ignored them.

As he made his way down the lift, he could hear more ruckus. Another display of poor police work, he assumed, until he saw the sight for himself.

The cellblock was crowded with the spare few officers who weren't upstairs controlling the home robber. In the middle of the crowd, he could spot a familiar blond head along with a black-haired man. Almost everyone turned to stare at Sherlock in shock, like they didn't really believe what they were seeing.

John had Moran up against the wall; hand on his throat, whispering to him in a voice that carried through the now silent room.

"-Swear to God Almighty, Moran, you wont make it to your damned court case if I have anything to do with it-" The doctor delivered a swift military punch to the taller man's face. "-You bloody bastard, after all we went through in Afghanistan-" Another punch resulting with a resounding crunch of the still handcuffed man's jaw. "-Son of a bitch threw away everything you could have had for that bastard Moriarty-" One last punch before Sherlock reached him and touched a hand to his shoulder.

John froze as he was about to deliver a fourth, turning only a little to see the detective looming behind him.

"Enough, John." And that was that. The two men stepped away towards the bag of John's belongings that had been dropped at the edge of the room. Instead of arresting John for assaulting Moran, the Yarder's simply shoved the hit man into a cell and left. Unfortunately that left them with not only Moran, but with the one person Sherlock was hoping to avoid.

"Quite a good job at physical combat, Doctor Watson," Mycroft commented as he swung his umbrella, a small smirk playing at his lips. "I suppose the man deserved it, after all."

John wound up again, ready to hit the smug look on the Government Official's face, when Sherlock again stopped him with a simple hand on the shoulder.

Muttering a simple thank you, for both complimenting his strength and obviously being the one to refuse to let Scotland Yard the right to charge him with assault, John straightened up into his military posture, grabbed his belongings and turned away.

Sherlock followed him to the lift, smiling proudly without any veil. He had never seen the doctor react like that (except the times he had saved the detective's life), and he quite enjoyed it.

John might have taken up the military posture and face, but inside he was bubbling with a triage of emotions. He was so elated to finally be free, to be out of the cell and walking without metal cuffs weighing him down. There was definitely fury in him- the side of him that took over while he attempted to beat Sebastian Moran to a pulp. Though that would probably never be properly satisfied, those few punches he got in had definitely done him well. Hand in hand with the misery of his still-fresh loss, John was speechless with his flatmate.

How in the world could he thank him?

From what Greg had told him, so much of the evidence pointed in his direction that half the Yard was wary for him. But Sherlock had worked his hardest, deduced absolutely every centimeter of the evidence, and came out victorious.

The two stopped outside the Yard, on the sidewalk, fully prepared to hail a cab, when they finally faced each other.

John broke out into a grin, which only made Sherlock smile in return. Both of them were real. The heartache of a lost girlfriend could wait; the anger of an interfering brother and an idiotic police squad could be left behind. It was them, finally back side by side, and with one of Moriarty's men behind bars, at that.

In an odd turn of events, the consulting detective pulled in the doctor by his shoulders and hugged him. Tightly. For a good minute, the two men stood there, hugging and breaking into small fits of laughter. The relief could be felt all around them, like a bubble of "things will be okay" surrounded them.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I'd be getting sentenced if it weren't for you." John sighed softly, pulling out of the hug and looking up at his friend with the most grateful expression he could muster.

"John, if it were not for you, I'd be dead long before now. I must thank you for not committing the crime. I do hope you would be much more of a challenge if you do murder someone. Perhaps serial killings based off a nursery rhyme. That would be fun." Sherlock nodded, thrusting his arm out to hail a taxi.

They broke into giggles. Gut-wrenching, bend-over, from-the-deepest-pits-of-your-belly, laughter.

"You would figure out the entire thing after the first murder and I'd never get away with the second!" John complained, pleased that they were falling into their usual (although strange) ways.

Nothing would change between them because of this. Because Sherlock believed John was innocent the whole time, and John believed that Sherlock would set him free.

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><p>AN - A million apologies that it's shorter than normal, but I felt this was a really good place to end. I'm really proud of this story, especially after all the wonderful reviews I've gotten. (Please keep reviewing, I never can get enough feedback!) I'm hoping to have another story up soon, so keep an eye out.

Again, thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/favorited/etc. Keep them coming!


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